Susannah is now one of the few prisoners who still work in the shoe tent. Many are ill, but more have simply given up, their weakened bodies refusing to do as they’re told, making the decision for them.
But Susannah has a plan. She works slowly – not caring what leather she salvages and what she wastes – and is silent and inconspicuous while Müller is on duty.
When Keller takes over she grits her teeth and waits ten minutes. Then she closes her eyes, takes a quiet breath, and presses the knife into the palm of her hand.
She shrieks. There’s blood. She squeezes her hand to force the flow of blood onto her clothing and onto the dusty earth below.
This is literally her lifeblood she’s gambling with – it had better be worth it.
She looks to Keller and shows him an imploring frown, but he looks straight ahead.
‘Help me!’ Susannah says. ‘I’m hurt.’
‘You have to carry on working,’ Keller says, the first words grating, the last ones in weaker tones.
‘But I’m hurt!’
Keller checks for approaching guards, then steps over to her and whispers, ‘What do you want me to do?’ He looks at her hand and also at the dark red droplets on the ground.
‘Anything,’ Susannah says. ‘You have to do something for me – for my family. I was sick this morning and I’m getting weaker every day. Soon I’ll be too ill to work in the tent.’
‘But . . . what can I do?’
‘Food. We need food.’
‘But I—’
‘Please. Anything. And I’ll do anything for you in return. People in my cabin are dying every day, and it’s the same in my father’s cabin. The guards try to take them out when nobody is looking, but that isn’t possible because there are now so many of us. And for every one that dies three take their place. You know this is all true. I’ve even seen you taking bodies away.’
Keller rubs fingers across his forehead, then wipes the greasy sweat onto his jacket. His mouth opens to speak a couple of times but each time he swallows the words, unable to even look at Susannah.
‘Please!’ Susannah says again, now coughing while she speaks. ‘I’ll do anything for more food. Name your price. You have to help me.’
Keller says nothing.
Susannah shoves past him and runs out of the tent, towards the perimeter fence again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At the memorial Susannah stood with leaden feet next to the cabin – the cabin that was there only in her mind – and started to hyperventilate.
She turned for help but the only thing she got was the sun blinding her, making her even more uncertain about where she was. And then her mind went back to the talk earlier that day in the Visitor Centre. The words seemed to echo out of the pine forest that formed a verdant blanket beyond the perimeter.
‘The female prisoners, they had, shall we say, other uses to the guards.’
‘Some of the younger women were very popular with the guards.’
‘Those who became what you might call good friends with the male guards went on to become informants.’
‘You see, they were on the side of the Nazis because . . . it spared them.’
Did the man in the Visitor Centre really say all of that?
How disgusting.
How dare he even suggest that the prisoners – such as Susannah – would collude with Nazis, the very people responsible for her family having to flee Berlin, having to hide out in the Netherlands, becoming incarcerated first in Westerbork and then in this very hell camp where she now stood.
There was a bench nearby, with a small rectangle of wild flowers in front of it.
She sat, and looked to the wild flowers for the answers.
As if there had been wild flowers in January 1945.
Next to the barbed wire at the perimeter fence Susannah coughs again and crouches down, almost doubled up with the convulsions of sickness. This is how it started with Father. The run from the shoe tent has made her chest worse, as if glue has been poured into her lungs. But Keller isn’t even out of breath when he arrives.
‘I’ve already told you,’ he says. ‘If I could do anything to help you I would, but—’
‘No!’ Susannah says. ‘We all know you have food. Look at you. Your bodies aren’t thin and wasted like ours. You’ve got energy. You must have more food than us. You even have food for your dogs. All I’m asking for is a little more. Some bread or something with sugar. Anything.’
Keller pauses while his eyes pass up and down her body. Then he says, ‘You know, if I could do anything for you that didn’t get me shot, then I would.’
‘Would you really?’
‘I’m sure I would. But . . . it depends what you could do for me in return.’
Susannah’s eyes drop to her torso. She straightens her clothing with the palm of her hand, then looks up at Keller, a scowl frozen on her face.
Keller is already shaking his head. ‘No,’ he says firmly. ‘You don’t understand. I don’t mean that.’
Susannah’s haggard shoulders dip very slightly as she relaxes, which brings on a short coughing fit. ‘Good,’ she says when she stops. ‘We all know some women who do, but . . .’
‘I understand,’ Keller says quietly. ‘I . . . I have a sister your age. I don’t want that. And really, I don’t want you to die.’
They are quiet for a moment as another guard passes by. He lingers, then asks if everything is all right.
Keller nods a few times and puts on a reassuring downward smile. ‘Oh yes,’ he says.
‘Was she trying to escape?’
Keller puts on a laugh. ‘Just being subordinate, nothing more.’
The other guard looks Susannah up and down, hesitates for a moment, then turns away and starts to walk briskly along an invisible line parallel to the perimeter fence.
‘So?’ Susannah says, once he has gone. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I’m not sure. But there are . . . there are rumours that the war isn’t going well for Germany.’
‘Then that’s what I can do for you.’
Keller frowns, puzzled.
‘If Germany loses the war I’ll take you in. You can come home to Berlin with us to save you from being shot. We could say you’re my older brother, yes?’
Keller laughs – at the same time almost crying – and gives his head a slow shake. ‘With my name and photograph on the staff records?’
‘We could get them and burn them.’
Keller gives her a pitying look and smiles glumly.
‘No,’ Susannah says. ‘Perhaps not. Perhaps I’m going mad. I’m sorry.’
‘Mad?’ Keller says. He laughs again, this time a cruel cackle, but also Susannah sees the wetness in his eyes. ‘Don’t apologize,’ he says. ‘This whole thing has been mad from the start. And we get more and more prisoners every day.’
‘Where from?’ Susannah asks.
‘Nobody knows. Even the Kommandant keeps saying, “No more.” But his superiors keep saying, “Yes, more.” He tells them we have thousands of prisoners sharing each toilet and pitiful amounts of food and water. They don’t listen.’
At that moment Keller’s name is shouted from afar. They turn to see Müller approaching.
‘Really,’ Keller says, now rushing out his words. ‘I can’t help. I’m sorry. There are thousands of you. I can’t help you all.’
‘Yes,’ Susannah says. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
Müller shouts again, this time from a few yards away. ‘What’s going on here?’
Keller says nothing, but holds Susannah by the arm and shoves her back towards the tent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
January holds her grip on Bergen-Belsen like an ice devil, yielding only when February takes over. But nobody seems to notice or care about the passing of another month.
Susannah and her family continue to work when they’re well enough. It keeps them warmer than lying on the floor would, and the extra food, even though i
t gets less month by month, keeps them a little less skeletal than many. And, of course, her father keeps saying they should never give up hope. But as far as Keller is concerned, that’s exactly how Susannah feels; they’re often in the same room but eye contact is avoided.
It’s a bright, dry day – but still bitterly cold – when Susannah takes her own and her mother’s clothes to the washing pool. On the lonely walk she comes across a frozen puddle in the heavily rutted mud and stops for a moment; there’s no rush, there’s never a rush anymore; even the guards seem apathetic. She presses her toe down onto the ice layer of the puddle and watches the bubble underneath search for an escape route; there is none. She feels as helpless as the bubble.
She trudges on towards the pool and drops her clothes down on the cold concrete edge. She’s alone because few prisoners now have the energy or the inclination to keep clean. Even the edges of the water are now forming crystal bonds to the concrete surround. How long before the whole pool freezes?
How long before . . . ?
How long . . . ?
Does it really matter how long before anything? It’s no more than a day-by-day existence, and the concept of time has lost any meaning beyond surviving each of those wretched days.
Susannah crouches down beside the still water and feels teardrops dribble down her face. At first she makes no sound, but the tears almost give her permission to reach further, to open the door she usually manages to keep bolted. The events of the past few years run through her mind like a race through a dark and unfriendly world, and although she has cried before, this time it’s different. This is no cry to get transient negative thoughts out of her system, or to make her feel better so she can last another day; this is a despair-ridden cry to God to pluck her from this living hell and take her anywhere else.
Or simply take her.
And as she prays for release of any sort, she feels the gossamer touch of a sylph-like spirit on her shoulder. She turns to see Ester, and there’s no attempt to disguise the state she’s in – not anymore.
Ester’s eyes are even warmer than usual, and she makes no sound, just crouches down next to Susannah and puts one of those stick-like arms around her. The two girls embrace and hold each other tightly, trying to squeeze strength into their emaciated forms, until Susannah’s cries burn themselves out to faint whimpers, and then to nothing.
Susannah lets go and wipes her face dry. They both turn to watch as a wagtail lands nearby and hops along to a puddle near them to drink, and then, with a fleeting song, launches itself up and away, over the perimeter fence, and into the pine forest beyond.
‘Are you all right?’ Ester says.
Susannah gazes out into the forest, then nods and splashes some chilly water from the pool onto her face to wash away the salty remains of her despair. There are a few minutes of silence as she sighs herself back to an acceptance of the reality of life in Bergen-Belsen. ‘Ester,’ she says, ‘do you cry?’
Ester smiles and shows a glimpse of teeth that are now browning at the edges. ‘No,’ she says gently. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘But . . . I don’t understand. How can you go through all of this and not be so upset that you cry?’
‘Because I believe.’
‘Believe what?’
‘That one day we will be like that wagtail; it might not be tomorrow or next week, but one day this will all be over and we too will fly out of here.’
Susannah says nothing, but merely bows her head.
‘Don’t you want to go back to Berlin one day?’ Ester says.
Then Susannah’s face cracks, as if she’s going to relapse to tearfulness. She tightens her facial muscles to keep in control. ‘Of course I do,’ she says. ‘I want to see my old friends, to smell the flowers in Rose Park, to . . .’ She closes her eyes, holding back the memories. ‘But I don’t think any of that will happen, and every day I stay in here that feeling gets stronger. I feel I might die in here.’
Ester leans back and grabs her by the shoulders, giving her a shake. ‘But how do you know that?’ she says.
Susannah opens her mouth and a puff of hot air streams out, but no words.
‘You have to watch the birds,’ Ester says. She points over to the tangle of barbed wire near the perimeter fence, where sparrows hide in the metal maze, occasionally venturing to puddles to drink and bathe before flying back into the forest. ‘I watch them and they give me inspiration. They fly in and out as they please, they have no barriers. One day we will also spread our little wings and fly away from this place. If they can fly, then so can we, Susannah, so can we.’
And Susannah takes a few moments to watch the birds, going where they please, then says, ‘But we can’t fly, Ester.’
‘We can in our minds if we try hard enough. Nobody can tell us what to think. My father used to tell me that.’
‘He used to?’ Susannah says.
Ester’s smile drops and her eyes show a fragility Susannah has not seen before. She looks to Susannah, then blinks rapidly a few times, but cannot stop those big eyes becoming wet and shiny. Her jawline trembles for a moment, then she bows her head and Susannah sees her shoulders quiver, almost trying to fold her body in half. Susannah, now sitting cross-legged in the mud, pulls her in and holds her tightly.
‘He said he would come back for me!’ Ester cries out. ‘He said he would come back!’ She screams as she sobs, and buries her head in Susannah’s chest.
And while Ester cries on her shoulder, Susannah watches the sparrows, wagtails and blackbirds go about their business without constraint or barrier.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s now two weeks into February, and rain pelts down on the cabin roof like a hail of bullets that never ceases.
In the frozen half-darkness of morning Susannah asks Mother if she’s working today. Mother momentarily opens her eyes, then says she feels too unwell to go anywhere. Susannah pats her on the shoulder and steals out of the cabin, holding a threadbare shawl over her head for shelter from the rain. She sees no guards or kapos, so runs over to the cabin where Father and Jacob are.
Their cabin is even more overcrowded than the women’s. The open door throws the first grey light of dawn onto the squalid scene, and Susannah squints to pick out Father or Jacob from the curled-up bodies, which cover every inch of the floor, including under the beds. As she steps between them a guttural whisper calls her name and she spots Father. She carefully heads in that direction and hugs him.
‘Are you coming to the shoe tent today?’ she asks.
Father shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Jacob and I, we were chopping wood until very late last night. Our backs . . . our arms . . .’ And there his cracked lips give up and he holds out his limp, blistered hands.
Susannah holds them – hands once so strong but now bony and almost lifeless – and gently caresses them. ‘There’s talk of the British,’ she says. ‘The rumour is they’re advancing and they’ll be here soon.’
‘If you believe rumours.’
‘No, Father. This is a rumour that doesn’t die.’
Father scratches his head roughly, then stops and nods very slowly. ‘We’ll see,’ he says. ‘But at the moment I feel rotten. The best I can do is come over to your cabin to see Mother later today. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll feel well enough to come to work with you.’
And Susannah can see in his eyes, even in this poor light, that he has almost given up, that he’s hardly the Father she knows. ‘Don’t lose your hope,’ she says.
But even as she speaks he lies down on the floor, curls up, and closes his eyes.
She wonders again whether she’s right to have hope, to believe in a better world. Perhaps there’s no point working in the shoe tent. But her stomach aches, and there’s only one way to ease that pain: work, which will earn some extra food. She gets up, pulls the shawl over her head, and rushes out and over to the shoe tent.
Jung is on duty, so she simply ignores him, sits down and picks up a shoe from the p
ile. She keeps the blanket over her shoulders and takes her mind to another, better place. She remembers Rose Park in Berlin, where she used to play with friends, where she used to run free. Then Amsterdam, and a change of friends and allegiances so abrupt she felt she’d betrayed those she’d grown up with in Berlin. And, again, those feelings were forgotten when she went to the isolated farmhouse. She thinks of Maria and Erik, she thinks of Aunt Helena and Uncle Paul, and wonders whether any of them are still alive, and also whether they would want to be. Susannah’s will to carry on is now paper-thin. She wonders whether those who have fallen by the wayside are the fortunate ones, because they are no longer suffering and have gone to a better place.
Surely no worse place exists than this.
Thirty minutes that numb Susannah’s mind pass by, then Keller takes over guard duty from Jung and stands bolt upright, head high, while Jung departs. Susannah’s weary eyes glance at him. For a split second she thinks there’s something different about him, but she doesn’t care enough to dwell on it. The journey in her mind, back to Berlin, is far more important.
Because nobody can tell us what to think.
Then her daydream is pierced as she notices Keller move. He pokes his head out of the tent entrance and looks both ways. There’s something going on with his clothing, as though he’s undressing. But no, he has only unbuttoned his jacket and taken out a bundle of cloth. He holds this under his arm while he quickly does his buttons back up, then turns sharply and walks up to Susannah. He does this so quietly that his actions would be dreamlike but for the din of the rain, and but for the fact she’s in a living nightmare.
He takes a moment to straighten his jacket, to flatten it against his torso. ‘You,’ he then says to Susannah. ‘I have an errand for you.’
The eyes of other prisoners now turn. Keller tells them to get on with their work. He waits for them to do so.
‘Take this to the kitchen barracks,’ he says, and offers her the bundle.
At first Susannah is puzzled, and just looks at what is in his hand. It appears to be a folded-up blanket. He shakes it, moves it even closer, almost prodding her with it, much as he shoved his rifle in her when they were talking at the perimeter fence. She rests her hands on it, for the first time in a year feeling the bliss of a clean blanket. The sensation of its softness on her fingertips is almost foreign.
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